A Snapback To Reality
by Notebooked
Summary: Because that scene in Meet The Soldier YOU know which one I mean was just so thoroughly awesome, it deserved its own fanfiction. I'm not sure what category this should be in, so think of it as general with some bits of humor. Enjoy, though.


The Spy of the BLU team looked at himself in the mirror, with a rather bitter stare. The mirror wasn't the cause of the bitterness; the mirror had never done anything against him. It was a nice mirror, both in looks and in personality. Well, personality was doubtful; it had never really said anything, or acted in any specific way, but then, it had never done anything against him, either. It looked nice, though, for sure. A full-body length mirror, a sheet of glass captured in white wood lined with silver (paint, but still silver-ish). It was a nice mirror, overall.

No, the mirror wasn't the cause of his bitterness. It was what he was looking at in the mirror. That was, himself.

He was unmasked. That was odd enough, for the people who knew him (well, thought they knew him, even if, when they searched their minds, all they'd find they knew was that he was French, he was very, very intelligent, and he was fruitier than a gardener's dreams of paradise); he was never seen without his mask. Some theories had flown about in the BLU team that the mask wasn't a mask at all; it was a birth defect, part of his face since the day he had been born. Some theorized it had replaced his skin since a welding accident (when asked why there would be welding, the additional theory came that his father was an engineer; this was either immediately sneered at or thought about for quite a while). Most theorized he was just an ugly bastard, and since he acted so high-and-mighty, he didn't want to reveal his one and only shortcoming. While this theory was very popular, it was, of course, incorrect. The spy had no shortcomings. Well, that had been true for quite a while. Until that one day.

It had been a fully ordinary day, up until The Moment, which, according to the Spy, deserved the capital letter, even if it was a tragedy to have such atrocious grammar.

_Pain._

_It was that simple. Pain, pain, through and through. He hadn't experienced the sensation for quite a while, so it came as a bit of a surprise to realize, as his thoughts whirred through his head, the moment frozen in reality, the Spy's thoughts speeding through his mind at tremendous speeds, in a desperate attempt to comprehend what just happened._

_Pain…hurt. It was a simple realization, and it was a realization that sounded more like one the Soldier would make, but it was, nevertheless, a realization._

_And it had been so…so easy, up until then! He knew he was going to win! He __**knew **__he was going to win! Sure, that particular one of the filthy REDs had gone on quite the killing spree, but that didn't mean anything. His teammates were incompetent cretins, anyway, a damn breeze could knock them over. So he had stepped in, to end the barbarian's life once and for all. And as he approached, he couldn't help but feel mildly superior. He would succeed where others failed, and while he did so every day, he couldn't help but feel the slight pang of pride rush through him every time. He had decloaked. He had his trusty butterfly knife out. He had a satisfied grin on his face, as he pulled his arm back, preparing to thrust it through the brute's spine._

_Perhaps he should have noticed the brute reaching into his jacket earlier._

_And after the pain had come (and it hadn't left yet), he crumpled like paper to the ground, unconcious. He was probably lucky that the thug had seemed to think him dead, and didn't waste any ammunition on him. Then again, he might also have been unlucky._

And that had been that. Any lesser idiot; any too-stupid-to-realize cretin; any optimistic _imbecile_ had left that at just that. But he did not. Because it wasn't just that.

It was a mark, forever, on his spotless record. He was a genius. He was a shadow. He was _perfect._ Whereas his 'friends' (hah…it was just laughable.) practically _showcased_ their emotions, their hobbies, their shortcomings, he stalked behind his enemies, made them paranoid, suspicious, think twice about _what was that? What could that have been? What is this?_, and they'd gasp and turn, thinking they caught him, but by then he'd be standing behind them, smirking, watching the puddle of blood spread further and further until he pulled his knife out. And they'd fall, cold, lifeless and weak. He killed people for a living. It was what he did. It would always be what he did. And it would always stay as a job. He liked it, certainly, but it was a job, and he would stay professional about it, awarding himself a chuckle or smile or laugh once or twice at a job well done. And that was why he was superior. Had been superior, at least.

And now he was not. Now he was among his teammates like some damn fool, another _person _among them. They didn't need more _people_, they needed someone to guarantee them victory. And that was him. It was what he did.

He'd die before going to the team's Medic for a skin transplant over it or similar, though. Certainly, surgically removing his only error ever would be perfect for him. But the headcase would probably completely ignore his request, instead being insanely fascinated with how such a simple object could leave such a deep print. Tch. Sadistic nutjob.

The Spy of the BLU team fingered the shovel imprint on his cheek before sighing, pulling his balaclava back on.

He wouldn't forget this. He wouldn't forget him.

And the brute would get his, when he least expected it.


End file.
